


such a fool to pay this price

by tsunderestorm



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 02:26:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6734218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsunderestorm/pseuds/tsunderestorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Allen deserves to feel real one last time and Cross only knows one way to do that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	such a fool to pay this price

**Author's Note:**

> written for a prompt challenge on tumblr - the quote was "we shouldn't be doing this." spoilers for Night 222.

The breeze is back, stirring stalks of what in erratic rows, obscuring the path they'd walked through the field as they talked. There's a clearing up ahead, one where the wheat stalks no longer grow, stomped into submission and driven out by roots of one lone tree.

Cross thinks he remembers it from years ago: two friends ( _lovers_?) with more power than they understood, a golem that gleamed as golden as the wheat fluttering around them. This place isn't for Allen, he knows what – whether he feels so strongly about it because he's invading what's left of a good memory or because Allen doesn't deserve to disappear here, in a place that isn't even his.

Following along behind his Master as he walks, Allen isn't sure what's real and what isn't. He hasn't decided if this Cross is an invention of his own loneliness or the real thing, somehow. He doesn't know what would be worse. A dream Cross, he could build up with the good parts of the man that he remembers, slotting together memories like puzzle pieces: the rare times Cross had praised him for an akuma well defeated, the way he'd tucked him into bed when his fever got so high he'd almost died, the way his hands had felt on skin normally covered by his clothes, alone in a room at a rarely-traveled inn in the south of France. The real thing, however, is a harbinger of doom.

Cross pivots on his heel and sits down on the ground, coat pooling around him. He takes one last, long drag from his cigarette and crushes the butt against the bark of the tree before looking at Allen. One look, still, is all it takes – Allen knows what he's suggesting, knows he shouldn't take the offer and even when every rational thought in his head is telling him _no_ , every nerve in his body is crying out _yes_ , every aching string of his heart being plucked to a tune of _please_.

He straddles Cross's waist easily. His thighs remember the firmness of Cross beneath him and his hips remember the way Cross's big hands had felt gripping them, first with gloves, then without, hot and harsh. It's different, this time, somehow. Cross's hand goes to the nape of his neck and tugs his hair loose from the haphazard ponytail he'd shoved it into, fingers twining through the messy strands as he watched him with an expression Allen can't quite decipher. It's...softer, somehow, sadder, and it's bittersweet. He knows he's dreaming, then, knows there's no way in hell Cross would touch him like a lover instead of just a quick fuck, a student to be taught, a nuisance to make do with when they're traveling and he can't find anything else. The breeze teasingly lifts a lock of hair fallen loose from his ponytail off of his neck, though, and Cross presses a kiss there. It feels _real_ and for a moment, Allen is scared.

“Master?” he asks, picking an errant puff of wheat stalk off of Cross's immaculate black robe and flicking it into the wind. Cross shakes his head and reaches into the folds of his robe on instinct, hand falling back to rest low on Allen's back, fiddling with the puff of his shirt where it's come partially untucked from his pants. Softly, hesitantly: “ _Cross_.”

Cross kisses him like no one else ever has, like no one else will ever be able to. His goatee tickles the windblown skin of Allen's cheek, rubbing it raw. Allen can't bring himself to care – in that moment he's never felt anything like this, never loved or hated anyone as much as his Master.

“We shouldn't be doing this,” Cross murmurs against Allen's temple. He knows with a sinking feeling that nothing here is private, knows full well they have an audience of god-knows-who; Road, for sure, maybe Nea (oh, was he going to be pissed) and the guilt is raw and rotten in him for just a moment, like cheap wine left out for too long. Allen shivers at those words and shakes his head. _No_ , he says with head bowed; defiant, proud, everything Cross knows he is and hopes he continues to be.

Allen pushes at Cross's broad chest weakly. “Arrogant, stupid Master,” he whimpers. “You started it. You at least owe me one last time to feel like I matter.”

Those words cut straight to Cross's core and he hates it. He hates Allen for being such a fighter, for making this so damn difficult, hates Nea for his stupid promise and the way he had to go and complicate everything, hates himself for the indecision he was never supposed to feel. Right now, he hates himself for the way that these days, he feels too numb to express emotion any other way besides fucking, that he knows he'll pour too much of himself into this last time and Allen will convince himself that it means nothing.

_You matter_ , Cross says to himself. _More than you ever should have_. He can't say those words, can't betray himself and let on that he's indecisive, that he still hasn't decided if he's allied with the right person or not. Instead, he tugs Allen forward against him, pushes aside the heavy fabric of his robe and lets Allen feel the hard line of his cock through his pants. He feels the ripple of pleasure through Allen's thin body, the way his thighs tighten snug around his waist and the way he rocks forward against him, searching for firm flesh to rub against. He's gorgeous like this, tears pricking , the corners of his eyes, lips gently parted, curved in an expression that's part pleasure, part pure, genuine heartache.

There's a vial in the pocket of his jacket, viscous and oily, and he pulls it out like it called to him, presses it in the center of Cross's palm and curls the man's fingers around it, lifts himself off of his lap long enough to hop out of one leg of his pants. The oil was a gift from a woman in a marketplace somewhere along his fleeing path, pressed into his hand as she'd whispered _for your aching joints or dry skin_ _._ It was some sort of massage oil and Allen had stowed it away, deep in the pocket of his jacket with a few other trinkets – a wrapper from one of Miranda's candies, a spare hairtie from Lenalee, a single playing card. Now it serves its purpose, turning liquid from the heat of Cross's body, warmed by his flesh as he spreads him open with two fingers.

Allen aches. The buckles on Cross's pants are digging into his hips and the wheat is tickling his thighs. The press of Cross's fingers inside of him is sharp and his Master's cock is thick and heavy beneath his palm. It's a good ache, though; an ache that reminds him that he's still himself, he's not gone.

Cross is, though, too soon.

When Allen comes down from it, falls back to earth in a sharp, screeching plummet, he's fully-clothed in a wheat field with nothing but golden stalks around him. He stomps on a still-smoking cigarette, ending its embers before it can light the whole field on fire, and remembers somewhere in the back of his mind that Cross always likes a cigarette after sex.

_We shouldn't be doing this_ , he had said. But they had, and Allen smiles as he wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. Stupid Master. When he finds him again, he's going to kill him for this.

 


End file.
